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Chapter Twelve
On Tuesday morning someone tried to kill him.
Or at least, that was how it seemed at the time.
It was six-thirty, and Jason was coming back from his run. Along with its considerable other amenities, Touchstone’s residents had access to a beautifully landscaped one-acre park with flower gardens and water features. His mind was on coffee as he crossed the front driveway parking lot on his way toward the lobby entrance. Should he opt for Starbucks or try the on-site café? Which would be faster this time of the morning?
He absently noted a car engine roaring into life—someone needed a transmission tune-up—and then, seemingly out of nowhere, a battered gold Chevy Impala came hurtling toward him.
“Jesus Christ…” Jason dove toward the large square fountain. He tucked and rolled—never pleasant on stamped concrete—and landed safely. The heat of the car engine and exhaust from its pipes blew past him with inches to spare. The hair on his arms prickled. Bits of grit stung his face.
“You asshole!” Adrenaline pumping, he scrambled up, trying to get the license, but the plate was not there. The vehicle screeched out of the driveway and disappeared into the morning work traffic on Wilshire.
Confusingly, the driver was lying on the horn as though Jason had nearly run him over. So was it an accident?
A couple of residents and a security guard—not Hugo Quintana—ran over to see if he was okay, and Jason reassured everyone that he was fine, barring some bumps and bruises.
No one had a license number. No one got a clear look at the driver. According to one bystander, the driver had been wearing a Michael Myers Halloween mask. A second bystander had seen an elderly man with binoculars behind the wheel. According to the last witness, a blonde woman on her cell phone had been driving. The security guard had not seen the driver but was certain the car did not belong to a resident.
In other words, bubkes.
The conversation quickly devolved into a debate about whether the auto court should be open to non-residents, and Jason excused himself and went to shower.
He was more mad than shaken. It seemed too early in his investigation for him to have riled anyone to the point of wanting to take him out. And though Jeremy Kyser was never far from his thoughts, Sam had explained that Kyser was unlikely to want him dead. Not right off the bat. Not until Kyser’d had time to explain himself and his manifesto up close and in person.
Which was the good news?
Maybe?
Anyway, despite the uneasy feeling that someone had deliberately tried to run him down, it seemed unlikely. True, two close calls in nearly as many days left Jason feeling a little like there was a target on his back, but just because there was a target on your back didn’t mean everyone was out to get you.
He showered, shaved, dressed—every time he glanced in the mirror and saw his reflection, he got a jolt—and headed out to UCLA.
How was it possible that one day in, he was already getting reviews?
Did these kids have nothing better to do? Didn’t they have homework?
Professor desperately needs to reduce caffeine intake.
Professor talks really fast, goes off on tangents, and loses me.
Auditioning for role as college professor in a sitcom that will be canceled after one season. (Nice ass, though.)
Just when you think you know what he’s talking about, you don’t.
Jason wasn’t sure if he was more irritated with Bern for jovially pointing out the reviews or himself for reading them.
As if his “Rate My Professor’s Substitute” scores weren’t bad enough, Professor Bardolf spent Tuesdays and Wednesdays at the Stoa facility in Santa Clarita, where the archive now resided. He would not be back on campus until Thursday.
Jason tried to get in touch with Ono’s former teaching assistant, but the young man had moved to Vermont.
His request for Ono’s personnel records was still “going through the channels.”
He spoke to Detective Gil Hickok at LAPD’s Art Theft Detail about Ono’s accusations against Eli Humphrey.
“Ono. I remember her,” Hickok said. “That was a weird one, as I recall.”
Hickok—Hick to his friends—didn’t just head up ATD. He pretty much was ATD. Jason had worked with him on numerous occasions over the past two years, and he liked and trusted Hick.
“How so?”
“Kind of hard to explain. It’s not that we don’t appreciate the help offered by concerned citizens, but my impression was the professor had an ax to grind. You know the dilemma with these very old films.”
Oh yes. Jason knew the dilemma. Some of the existing prints of very old and very rare movies were rescues. Technically, it was not possible to demonstrate ownership because the films had been saved from dumpsters or purchased at swap meets and yard sales or salvaged from old theaters or even taped from late night TV. And being in possession of a film you could not prove ownership of was liable to get you charged with piracy and copyright infringement, depending on what you tried to do with that film.
“My understanding is Ono and Humphrey were both members of some kind of cinephile social club. And that she got kicked out of the club after fingering Humphrey.”
Hick sighed. “Yeah, as the investigation proceeded, she wanted us to fix that for her too.”
“Oops. That’s not how that works.” Jason felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for Professor Ono, who hadn’t seemed to understand you couldn’t legally force someone to be your friend.
“No. It’s not.”
“What ax do you think she wanted to grind? Do you know?”
“I could never be sure because, of course, everyone clammed up after we got involved. We ended up handing it off to your guys.”
“Right. Where the investigation pretty much hit a wall.”
“Yeah. I think the falling out started over her being excluded from a particular screening.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not sure, because her story changed after that initial interview. She did seem to feel she had been deliberately left out of, uh, group activities and that Humphrey was in possession of illegal materials.”
That was a slightly different take than the story Jason had previously heard. “What kind of illegal materials? Pirated films or something else?”
“Unknown.”
A disturbing thought occurred. “Child pornography maybe?”
“I did wonder. But see, that’s where it got murky. My impression was we weren’t talking about pirated movies, but she wouldn’t come right out and say it. Whatever it was. Maybe she wasn’t one hundred percent sure. But then midway through, we were talking about pirated movies and copyright infringement.”
“Are you sure—”
“No,” Hick said. “I’m not sure. At first, I had the impression she was scared. But that feeling faded, and I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it.”
“She burned her boats with that interview. Maybe the realization shook her a little.”
“That’s a good point,” Hick said. “Because her boyfriend was part of the movie club, and after she got over her initial outrage, she started worrying about endangering his position at UCLA. He works as an archivist, and getting wrapped up in a film piracy investigation would not exactly be a career booster.”
“He’d lose his job,” Jason said. Or would have, pre-tenure.
Hick didn’t have much more to add, which left Jason the option of poring over his case files yet again.
Nothing new popped out at him.
Sam’s observations the previous evening had been interesting but had not really shed new light on the character and psyche of Georgette Ono.
“Most likely a middle child,” Sam had theorized, “but she didn’t display the usual degree of peacekeeping and compromise. The opposite, in fact.”
“I thought you didn’t put credence in birth-order theory?”
“As a whole, I don’t. But there are obvious generalities. Your victim is someone with a strong sense of grievance. Proof of emotional investment and atonement for perceived slights will have been constants in her relationships.”
“Romantic relationships?”
“All relationships, including professional connections. This is someone who felt, and possibly was, overlooked and underappreciated during her formative years.”
“That’s the consensus—about her contentiousness, I mean.”
